


Existence

by stillskies



Category: Loveless
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:29:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillskies/pseuds/stillskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soubi paints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Existence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [macey_muse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/macey_muse/gifts).



> Originally posted 11-20-2008

The assignment is to paint the meaning of their existence. But what if your existence isn’t meant to be shared?

The canvas stares blankly at him, unblemished and pure. He briefly wonders if he can turn in a blank assignment; tell the teacher that it is the landscape of his existence - blank, cold, colorless. 

The palette sits to the side, the array of colors spread upon it drying at the edges. The brush is loosely held in his hand, the bristles stiff and clumped together.

Another student leaves, then another. Soon, he will be the last one there. Alone with his snowy canvas.

He dips the brush into the cup of water and swabs the bristles through the green paint. He touches the brush to the canvas, clears his mind, and paints.

The simplicity of the first few strokes calms him, and the design he has in mind becomes clearer.

_Why do you exist?_

To serve.

_To serve whom?_

The one who claims me.

_One who has left, disappeared, discarded you?_

Yes.

_Can you forgive?_

If he orders me to, I must.

_Will you forgive?_

If it is what he desires, I will.

_But what of the other?_

He opens his eyes and looks at the canvas. In the center of the canvas is the symbol for eternity. An oak tree, a dagger, and the triple cross are at the points, forming a triangle.

The paint is dry and flaking off of the tree, while the eternity symbol is just highlighted blue shadows. There is the faintest glimmer of red along the edge of the blade, and the cross is dull, as though it has been handled too many times.

In a way, it describes his existence perfectly: a cycle that can never be broken.

He takes his palette and his brushes the sink and cleans them off methodically. The brushes go in their appropriate cans, the palette in the cupboard. He looks up and notices that he is the last one left, save the teacher, who is looking curiously at his canvas.

His bag is at the foot of his easel, and he quietly picks it up and excuses himself.

"Agatsuma-kun," his teacher says, and her voice echoes in the empty room. 

Soubi stops and turns around. "Yes, Iwata-san?"

"Your painting is very interesting. It’s a stark representation of self-destruction."

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

"Surely there is something more to why you are here?" she asks, but her voice doesn’t convey anything more than academic curiosity.

Soubi shakes his head. "We’re all here for the same reason, and we all follow the same pattern." Except for those who master their fate, and control the fate of others.

"Well, I do hope to see you next semester, Agatsuma-kun." She smiles and touches the canvas lightly. Her finger comes away with flakes of red clinging to it. "You are quite talented."

He nods. "Thank you, Iwata-san." He bows and exits the room.


End file.
